The Curve of the Spine

I saw a jacket hunching through the deli glass

and for a second, I let the long years pass

back to the way you used to tuck your chin

whenever you let the heavy weather win.

It’s your mother’s tilt, that defensive collapse,

the way the skeleton finally gives up, perhaps.

Those vertebrae like a row of hard knuckles

pushing through the wool where the fabric buckles.

You’re still shielding a heart that isn't there.

I’m still looking for you in the cold city air.